Sept.11

September 11, 2007

I'm still reeling from reading this book, Kahled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns. Having loved his first book, The Kite Runner, I was excited to hear that he had written another. This second story chronicles the lives of two women living in Afghanistan from the 1970's to the present time. Part of the power of the story comes from the fact that it takes place precisely during my lifetime, covering all the global news I lived through - the cold war, the fall of the Soviet Union, 9-11, the American attacks - but from a vastly different perspective. I couldn't help but be aware that this could have been my life, had I been born there instead.

Hosseini weaves an excellent story, my favorite kind of story. Even as I am captured by the women's lives as they unfold, I am gaining perspective, understanding, of cultures far different from my own, historical and current events told from a viewpoint I cannot have, and the history of Afghanistan told from her own memories, not from America's media images. This last point is so important to us, I believe. I remember so clearly the day American forces invaded Kabul. I remember going to a map of the world, placing my hands on the country of Afghanistan and feeling grief, so much grief, for the life-wrenching stories of loss and war and grief that were being written that day, unknown to me. In this story, I learn to imagine not only what these stories may have been, but something of the world they took place in, and the history that led up to them.

Awakened by the noise, I said to my husband, "That sounded scary." I glanced over at the clock radio. 5:30 a.m., too early to get up. Still, today is September 11th, and that made me even more anxious than usual about low-flying planes.I was tempted to reach over and turn on NPR--just to make sure all was well.

But then I heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet.

"Something loud in my room scared me."

I pulled my my almost three-year-old into bed next to me and we dozed together for a half an hour or so. On the off chance that there had been another terrorist attack, I wanted to hold onto a little piece of closeness. To soak up her sweet innocence for a few more minutes.

On 9/11 my daughters had been in kindergarten for one week. I had just returned home from dropping them at school, when my sister called and told me to turn on the television. Immediately I called the schools to see if I should pick up my daughters (which is what I wanted to do). I felt that we should be together. But I was persuaded not to do this. The professional educators did not want to scare the children, and they promised to help the children understand what was happening in the world.

One of my twins was enrolled at a public K-8 school with a dream principal. She brought all the children in grades 1-8 into the gymnasium for an assembly at which she spoke. She did not feel the kindergartners would be ready for this, so she talked with the kindergarten class separately, with their teacher. I cannot imagine a better person to talk to these children. (She has now retired from the system). My other daughter was enrolled in our local parish school (also K-8), also with a dream principal. She gathered all the grades together and they prayed as a community. I cannot imagine a better person to pray with these children. (Sister Sarah, the principal, left that school, as well).

I was going to post at September 11th today, about the strange mix of fear and calm as I sat in my office downtown. I was going to write about being blocks from the Sears Tower, about the constantly ringing phones that spread from office to office, cubicle to cubicle, as mothers and husbands and boyfriends and friends in other nearby buildings called with concern. Where were we? Would Chicago be next? When would we evacuate? Is it OK to exit the buildings, to board the els and subways, to drive on the expressways through the city?

I was going to write about how I sat on the couch for ten hours with my mother, unable to get stir, my eyes fixed on the chaos and horror and overwhelming sadness of a city and a nation crumbling. I was going to write about attending a memorial service at my church a few days later, of feeling like a hand rested on my shoulder during one hymn, of having a strong sense that my minister grandfather had died only a month earlier with some purpose, of the peace that washed over me when I envisioned him greeting the departed as their spirits ascended into the unknown.

Just when I thought the week of September 11th, 2001 couldn’t get any worse, the phone rang.

It was Heather. Before she spoke, or perhaps while she was speaking, my thoughts shot back to a place I once called home. Only two train stops before the PATH leading right into Manhattan — over the river but truly a New York suburb, as are so many of the towns dotting the exits of the Garden State Parkway above Exit 9.

She still lived in this cozy bedroom community where then-husband and I started our married life. It was the place we’d moved from seven years before and had never again visited. Although Heather and I were fast friends since the time our babies, born only one-day apart, were eight weeks old, we rarely spoke after my family moved from the area. Actually I think when she called that day we probably hadn’t spoken in two or three years.

Noah was just a baby, almost 7 months old. I remember nursing him in our TV room, then putting him in his bouncy seat. Hubby was getting ready for work and I was in my pajamas. I had the Fox Morning News on.

I watched as they announced the first plane hit. I didn’t realize- nobody realized- what was really happening. It seemed to be a small plane. It seemed to be an accident. I casually called to hubby, “Oh, a plane hit the World Trade Center.” Said more like “weird” than what we’d know it to really be.

I remember calling to hubby again as he was about to step out the door… “Another plane!”